


My Strange Addiction

by slightlyrebelliouswriter



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Angst, Deleted Scenes, F/M, Jude is all hot n bothered, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 12:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30072567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyrebelliouswriter/pseuds/slightlyrebelliouswriter
Summary: A deleted scene, post-chapter 15, pre-chapter 16.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar, The Bomb & Jude Duarte
Comments: 20
Kudos: 44





	My Strange Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Soft focus allusions to sexual things, light innuendo.

I leave the dwindling revel on legs that don’t feel entirely there. I am in the throne room, but not. I am in the hallway, but not.

I am in the small alcove behind the dais, but not.

_Are you afraid?_

My face floods with heat. I keep my chin up, though, setting one foot in front of the other, flinging away memories that wedge themselves between me and sanity.

A few courtiers pass me in the hall, moving in the opposite direction. A girl with a deer's nose and tiny antlers sprouting from her head turns to whisper something to a boy with opaline hair, blue scales for skin, and oil-slick lips as I pass.

They are both wretched in their loveliness, but neither are as lovely nor as wretched as the dark thrill of Cardan's eyes, like something I could fall into.

I hurl that thought away, too, and keep moving.

 _Your hair looks like a thicket,_ Nicasia had said to me one day a lifetime ago, after I’d slept in Locke's bed.

Now, I have done much more than sleep in someone else's bed. I have rolled in it, painted my gown a parabolic green. My hair must look like elflocks.

I run a hand through it, trying to affect as much normalcy as possible. My lips feel swollen so I press them together. My stride is a little quicker than usual, but that isn't _un_ usual. important people have important things to attend, and as the High King's seneschal, I am important.

_Are you afraid of me, Jude?_

_I should be,_ I’d told him then, and he'd smiled, magnanimously, setting my heart racing anew.

 _If I were smart,_ I think now, _I would be very afraid._ If I were smart, I would kill him. It would be so easy.

I am always afraid, but never of what I should be.

I’m afraid that every faerie I pass in the corridors can sense what has transpired. That they can smell desire clinging to my clothes, my skin, my hair, like smoke pluming from a bonfire.

But most of all, I am afraid I have struck the match and set a burning blaze I cannot put out. I am afraid it will swallow me whole.

The echo of my boots, heavy on the stone floor grounds me. The slap of my sword against my thigh reminds me who I am. It is an effort to hold my head a little higher, but I do.

This wouldn't be such a shameful thing if I weren't mortal. This wouldn't be shameful if it had been with someone else. _Anyone_ else.

Finally, I reach my room door and shut myself inside. Lock it. Lean against the wood and quiet like they are the only solid things.

I discard my outer layers on the chair, propping my sword up against the desk.

Shame is pride turned inward. I am proud of the strategies I’ve employed which have lead to victories for myself and the Court of Shadows. I am proud that I have outsmarted two princes of Faerie and the High King's General in one fell swoop. I am proud that I have managed to keep this accrued power for these long months.

I am ashamed that I risked all of that tonight. I am ashamed that Cardan has found a way to best me, and that it proves how irrefutably mortal I am. That even I, raised with every wondrous comfort and danger of Faerie, raised with the beguiling beauty and menace of the Gentry, cannot resist succumbing to it. Cannot resist craving it.

I stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom, hands planted on either side of the wash basin. I stare at my flushed reflection.

 _He likes you this way, flushed and furious._ Perhaps Cardan was speaking of more than just Locke when he said that to me.

I get a sudden urge to crack the glass with my fist. I would love to see myself fractured into bits between one-hundred spiderwebbing splits, if only for a moment.

Probably, Cardan would, too.

The blood would be a mess, though. And there _would_ be blood. I am mortal. I am fragile. I am weak.

Instead, I splash cold water on my face and try not to feel.

I head back into my bedroom, unsheathing my sword, and, in the full length mirror, I practice my blade-work until my feet are sore, my head empty. Until sweat beads on my upper lip again.

The burning in my chest now is the good kind.

I slash my sword through the air watching it shine in a perfect arc. I pretend my reflection is Cardan, and smile wryly. Cardan would be terrible at this. Cardan is terrible at most things, but the image of him doing _this_ against _me_ , brings me no small amount of pleasure. He would _suck_.

Strike, dodge, parry.

Only, that's not true. Cardan isn't terrible at a lot of things. He isn't terrible with words. He's unnervingly good at them, actually.

Parry, strike. Strike, dodge.

He isn't as terrible at being High King as I thought he'd be. Which is just as unnerving.

Strike. Dodge. Thrust. Parry. Strike.

And he certainly isn't a terrible kisser.

_We should've called a truce long before this._

I freeze, gasping for breath which has all but left me, sword pointed straight at the mirror.

There, I see Cardan's sneer like the glint of a blade, mocking, before it is gone, wiped away by my own shocked expression.

 _This isn't helping_ , I think. None of this is helping.

I sheathe my sword in its scabbard with irritated force, then flop down on my bed. With my face against the pillow, my own breath warm against my cheeks, I think about all the things that led me astray.

For starters, thinking I could taste something and not desire more of it, in Faerie, is a fool's thought. Everything is moreish in Faerie. And Cardan is even more potent than its most gilded fruit.

I think of how Oriana would reprimand me. Then I remember she _did_ reprimand me. For this very deed. Only, back then, it was for a deed I did not do, with a High King I never tangled with.

If she could see me now, I think her expression would compete with lemons for tartness.

I remember how Cardan's rivalled gumdrops for sweetness. The whimsical sugary madness of his mouth on mine, the red wanting of his tongue, claiming every soft sound I made. How I plucked moans straight from his throat like cherries, despite my unskilled hands.

My cheeks are hot. My pulse pounds reckless in my ears.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you." I whisper the words again to myself as I dive under the coverlets, burying my face deeper in the pillows.

Maybe if my shame doesn't come to take me in the night, sleep will.

I blink and a wrap sounds on my door. Jolting upright, my heart in my throat, I am on my feet before I can think who it might be.

I pause with my hand on the handle. Maybe Cardan has come to finish what he started. I should slam the door in his face for such a presumption. I should _punch_ his face. Adrenaline surges in my veins at the thought. But then, maybe I’ll see just what I can do with his face before making any rash decisions.

I unlock the door, ripping it open and nearly off its hinges, coming face to face with someone who is very much Not Cardan.

“Hello, Queen," the Bomb says to me with a sly smile, leaning one hip against the doorframe. Her use of my nickname chafes against something already raw in my chest, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from snapping. But the Bomb doesn't deserve my misdirected ire.

“Hi," I say stupidly.

“You look..." she gives me a once-over. “Excited. Who did you think I was?"

“I was just practicing."

“Practicing what?" she asks, though her grin says she has one more guess than I’d probably like.

I give her a disapproving look and vacate the doorway. “What's this about, Bomb?"

“We've heard talk," she says, following me inside and shutting the door behind her. “People within the Court speculating about the High King's ability to rule."

“What does _that_ mean?" I scoff. “Everything is fine, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she says, biting her lip. “But anyone who is close enough to the Court to regularly observe its machinations knows that if Cardan is not guiding his own hand, then you are."

I try to make my shrug as nonchalant as possible. “Sure. I’ve helped him make a few decisions."

She arches a brow. “I think you do yourself a disservice with that statement."

I frown. “So what? Are you telling me to back down? Let Cardan rule on his own? Because I can guarantee you that won't—"

“Jude," the Bomb interrupts. “That's not what I’m saying."

“What _are_ you saying then?"

“With the stunt Locke pulled at the Hunter's moon revel—I’m sorry about that, by the way. Are you alright?"

I wave her off.

“Well, if someone as inconsequential in title as Master of Revels can make entertainment of both the High King and his seneschal in front of everyone, who's to say someone can't play our entire Court for fools?"

“Where is this talk coming from?" I demand. I’d thought everyone at the revel to be totally unaware of the games afoot in our most inner social circle. It appears I thought wrong.

She lifts a shoulder. “After coming down from the high of the revel, some can see clearer for what it was."

That sentence strikes me, though probably not in the way she intended.

I do glean meaning from it, however. To see clearly, all I need do is wait out the high. I’ll shove all thoughts of Cardan away, keep contact with him to an absolute minimum. I’ll make myself busy with anything I can. Shouldn't be hard for a Court apparently so run amok with rumours. I could probably spend days uprooting the sources of slander alone, though it is probably unwise, and will do little good.

But I won't dwell anymore on Cardan. I refuse to.

I scrub a hand over my face, heaving a big sigh. “Okay. I’ll handle it.“

“Are you sure you're alright, Jude?"

The question makes my throat tighten, but I am already shoving my feet into my boots, lacing them up.

“I’m fine," I tell her.

If I cannot attack the problem of the Undersea and I cannot attack the problem of Cardan, then perhaps I can take care of something else.

**☽☽☽☽☽**

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This was just a little surprise something that popped into my head, inspired by an anonymous ask on Tumblr! Last line of this belongs to the wonderful Holly Black. Hope you all enjoyed.  
> I am slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Tumblr. All my writings and more are on there. Thanks for reading! Back to the forest, now.  
> -Em 🖤🗡


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